


This is where we’ll end it

by Fatale (femme)



Series: This complicated thing we have [10]
Category: White Collar
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 15:24:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme/pseuds/Fatale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter surveys the stacks of boxes with dismay. He leans over, shoves a hand into one and comes back out holding a large white pillar candle. “Why do you have so many of these?” Peter asks, mystified.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is where we’ll end it

This is where we’ll end it  
Mostly Peter/Neal, but established Peter/El/Neal  
PG  
WC: 1400

A/N: To the four people still reading all this silliness - thank you, thank you! This is the final part, guys!

For [Kuro49](../users/kuro49/pseuds/kuro49), who inexplicably prompted me with “banana knife.”

 

 

 

“The Sunday Times crossword always makes me feel stupid,” Peter grumbles. “I’m a smart guy, but this ridiculous.”

Neal sits down his coffee. “What’s the clue?”

“There is no way--”

“Just give me the clue,” Neal says, a touch impatiently.

“Increases milk production in cows, three letters.”

Neal thinks for a minute, then says, “BSH.”

Peter writes it in, sets down his paper, and narrows his eyes. “How the hell did you know that?”

“I had a brief and disastrous flirtation with animal husbandry. If you’re curious, I support free-range farming.”

“Naturally. Is there anything you haven’t flirted with?” Peter demands.

“Unnecessarily asshole-ish, but point taken,” Neal says. He looks down at his watch. “Time to get to work.”

 

\---

 

Peter surveys the stacks of boxes with dismay. He leans over, shoves a hand into one and comes back out holding a large white pillar candle. “Why do you have so many of these?” Peter asks, mystified. He sniffs it experimentally.

Neal snatches it out of his hand. “They’re romantic. Stop fondling my candles.”

“Sorry, didn’t know you had such a candle fetish.”

Neal fixes Peter with an unimpressed stare. “Do we really need to talk about fetishes? After what you asked me to do with leather gloves last night?” he asks flatly.

Peter colors slightly “Fine, all right.” He peers into another box.

“Stop that,” Neal says.

“Why are you being so weird about this? You’ve basically been living here for about a year. The only difference is now it’s official.”

“ _Basically_ is not the same thing as _actually_. I _basically_ forged a Klimt. But can you prove it?”

“I’m going to pretend like I didn’t hear that last part. How do you live so precariously on the edge of technicalities?” Peter asks, absently reaching into another box.

“Carefully,” Neal says. “Hey, that’s not a normal banana--”

Peter jumps back as a blade pops out with a soft snick. “What in the hell--”

“One of Mozzie’s better inventions.”

“There are worse ones than switchblade fruit?” Peter asks.

 

\---

 

They move his couch into the guest room, so Neal can have his quietly crazy moments in relative peace.

Last week, Peter got the lock changed to a solid one with a key, which Neal had taken to wearing on a chain around his neck. He had the closet redone because it was awful and only held about one-third of his clothes.

The rest of his stuff went into storage, though Mozzie offered to keep it for him, which Neal declined. Thursday’s place smells like cabbage.

Neal brings his safe and scrapbook in while Peter’s in the shower.

If Peter notices, he politely doesn’t ask about the drilling sounds coming from Neal’s room.

 

\---

 

Neal slips out for a bit.

When he gets back, Peter’s flushed, irritable. “If you didn’t want to help, you should have told me.”

“I don’t want to help,” Neal says.

Peter looks up then. “I - oh. Thanks, I guess.” He makes it sound like a question.

Neal huffs, “I said I didn’t want to help, didn’t say that I wouldn’t.”

“It _is_ your stuff,” Peter says mildly. “Where’d you go?”

“Nowhere,” Neal says, idly poking through boxes. Mostly he’s been waiting for Peter to unpack his stuff so Neal can put everything where he wants it. He’s been walking around randomly patting stuff and moving boxes with his foot to look busy for hours. It’s getting boring.

“I’m just looking for a little honesty here, Neal.”

Neal thinks honesty is hugely overrated, but wisely keeps his opinion to himself. Just like he thinks some of Peter’s suits make him look like he robbed a hobo, and watching baseball games on TV is really tedious. It’s just hitting a ball with a bat and then running around in circles, isn’t it?

People always say they want honesty, but when Neal tries it, they look quietly appalled and kind of sorry for asking.

Neal digs in his pocket, fishes out the shiny silver key he’d just had made. “Here,” he says, tossing it at Peter, who reflexively catches it and stares down at it, puzzled.

“It’s a key to my room,” Neal says. “Just in case.”

“In case of what?”

“If I fall or something. Or if there’s a fire, who knows.” Why does Peter have to be so difficult? Neal’s having a _moment_.

Peter frowns. “It’s a bedroom door, not Gitmo. I can get you out if I have to.”

“God, shut up,” Neal says. “I’m -- this is. It’s a gesture. Take it or leave it.” He turns away and begins unpacking a box nonsensically labeled “Suits’ Suite,” which he takes to mean bedroom stuff. He doesn’t know why he let Mozzie have the sharpie. All of his boxes have poems and anti-propaganda slogans on them now.

A pair of strong arms wrap around him, startling him so badly he nearly drops the stack of blankets he’s holding, and then Peter says, mouth lightly brushing his ear, “I’ll take it.”

 

\----

 

Peter and Neal decide to take another break. They haven’t gotten all that much done, but probably after a snack they’ll feel refreshed and ready to work.

Somehow, they end up eating BLTs and watching _Escape from Alcatraz_.

Neal complains about how unfair it is that they don’t have to wear orange jumpsuits.

“It’s just a movie, Neal.”

“But the orange outfits add a certain misery to the whole prison experience.”

“The orange outfits?” Peter asks doubtfully. “That was what made prison bad?”

“Have you ever spent four years looking like a great big carrot?”

“Can’t say that I have,” Peter says. “But the movie wouldn’t be the same -- it’s Clint Eastwood, you know?”

“Do you have a thing for Clint Eastwood or prisoners in general?” His face brightens. “I could probably get one of the prison uniforms--”

Peter interrupts, “Neal, if I just wanted to sleep with a convict, I’d start giving out hand jobs during interrogations.”

“You’d get more confessions if you did,” Neal says. “Come on, the fact that I’ve been on the wrong side of the law doesn’t turn you on just a little? Peter, you can tell me. I won’t judge you.”

“You will, and it doesn’t,” Peter says firmly. “I like - _love_ \- your brain. The brain that causes you to do incredibly stupid things sometimes, but also makes you so damn smart, it kills me.”

“My brain?” Neal asks flatly. “You love…my brain.”

“You’re purposely missing my point here -- you can do the Sunday crosswords, you have a switchblade banana, you cheat at board games, you embarrass me at museums because you sniff things and then laugh really loudly,” Peter says and grins suddenly, feeling stupidly sappy and too happy to give a damn. “It’s not about any one thing -- It’s just you.”

Neal ducks his head awkwardly. “God, enough. I get it, Peter. And the museums, I didn’t know it embarrassed you. Sometimes the forgeries are awful, barely a step above paint by numbers. I‘ll stop -- unless it’s really, really bad or I just can’t help myself or I get bored.”

But he looks up and returns Peter’s smile -- eyes clear, shining, and grin as bright as the sun.

 

\---

 

When El gets home, the lights are out. The house is still packed with boxes, she notes, as she gingerly picks her way through the living room. They unpacked about five boxes in all, one of which she knows for a fact only had one item in it.

She follows the dim light upstairs. Voices from the bedroom filter out to the hallway and El has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing out loud.

“I mean, you’re only a couple of inches taller than me,” Neal’s saying irritably. “That doesn’t automatically make you the big spoon.”

“I get to be the big spoon because I’m more manly.” Peter sounds smug.

“Peter, Peter -- we’re talking about spooning, for god sakes. I don’t even think manliness factors into this conversation.”

El does laugh then, she can’t help it. The voices stop, waiting.

She opens the bedroom door to join them, her ridiculous, lovely boys.

 

 

 

 

The end.

 


End file.
